Inexplicable sadness swept over me when I read last week about the deaths of Kate Spade and of Anthony Bourdain. Both high profile and talented, they influenced millions of us: Spade with her handbags and fashion sense; Bourdain with his perspective on food that brings people together. Both left young daughters behind when they need their parents most on the threshold of adolescence. Perhaps Spade and Bourdain’s pain was so immense that they did not see their suicides as abandonment, rather as a means of silencing the torture in their own minds. Their demons must have chased them down a black hole from which their strength to resist had been depleted. And therein lies another tragedy: Those who are dead are dead; it is the living who must find the ways and means of coping, continuing to live long after the deceased have gone.

Suicide is an equal opportunity means of ending life. It cuts across socio-economic groups and ethnicities. Yet it is a peculiar means of leaving that is on the rise in the United States. Benedict Carey wrote in his article, How Suicide Quietly Morphed Into a Public Health Crisis, in The New York Timeson June 8, 2018:

“The rise of suicide turns a dark mirror on modern American society: its racing, fractured culture; its flimsy mental health system; and the desperation of so many individual souls, hidden behind the waves of smiling social media photos and cute emoticons.”

One of the key phrases in Carey’s article is American society…its flimsy mental health system. I recall when I worked in the 1980’s full time at a Texas university that my healthcare coverage included only so many visits to a therapist, should I need one. I was offended then, and I am even more offended now that mental health care is still grossly underfunded in the U.S. The government and insurance companies seem to believe mental health care coverage should be limited when the opposite is true.

For some years now, my daughter and her cousin have liked Kate Spade designs; they even have several of her handbags and jewelry. Kate Spade designs exude a happy-go-lucky aesthete coupled with practicality. Several years ago, I bought my daughter a Kate Spade pencil case. The design was so clever that I could not resist a pencil case with a lined penmanship motif. Bright colors, cheerful scripts, and overall originality apparently belied the dark musings that lurked behind Kate Spade’s whimsical designs. She brought us so much joy with her designs over the years that I wish it could have empowered her to banish her depression. Alas, neither her fans, nor her family or friends could save her from herself.

Anthony Bourdain’s brash, no-holds-barred approach to food breathed fresh air into previously snobbish attitudes towards food truck street food. His landmark book Kitchen Confidentialblew the lid off food and restaurant respectability. His CNN show Anthony Bourdain:Parts Unknown mesmerized me. I particularly liked the episode “Quebec” where he traveled with two Quebecoise chefs who introduced him to beaver meat topped with shaved black truffles. The exotic Tangiers, Morocco episode made me wish my own town included a Moroccan eatery. Bourdain even took us to Libya where the people cook, eat, and continue to celebrate their freedom after years of an oppressive regime. I always feel like I am there with Anthony Bourdain as he and his crew roam the narrow streets and back alleys of a town with a local or two leading them to a fabulous meal behind a scruffy building façade. His talent for bringing us along for his street food ride has been pure pleasure. We feel like we have gotten to know the people with whom he talks as he eats with them. Sadly, we could not save him either.

Those of us, who did not personally know Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, only saw them through the prism of social media, from the magazine stands, and from television. Moments captured on red carpets are what we saw; we did not share in their private lives. Hopefully, they are now at peace, watching over their loved ones who hold them in their hearts.

If you are having thoughts of suicide, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-

As we near the end of November, we turn our attention to that laudable holiday: Thanksgiving. In the spirit of breaking bread, or Parker House Rolls, we sit down at the table laden with roasted turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, butternut squash, creamed corn, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, pumpkin, or pecan pie, or apple pie, or my homemade coconut cream pie. We toast with wine to get the family and friend meal underway. The eating then commences amid the clatter of plates and the cheerful chatter of goodwill.

Small wonder we reach for an anti-acid after pushing away our chairs from the table.

I have read several articles in the past week or so about how to avoid conflict over the Thanksgiving meal. This has to do with inquisitive relatives hitting upon flashpoints of personal matters such as Why aren’t you pregnant? You’ve been married nearly two years! Don’t you want to take off that extra weight? You’d look so much prettier! What made you retire at 64? You could go until 70 or at least 67! Why did you go back to work? You retired! You must have been bored! Don’t you want to get married again? You could have companionship and even sex [wink, wink]! Have you found a boyfriend yet? Childbearing years have an expiration, you know. Finally, there is the dreaded political and sexual harassment and/or rape discussion. I am not even going to dignify this blog post with the degenerative and outrageous behavior that is bringing this year to a close, God help us.

I have told myself that all those who make whatever inquiries mean well, that they are attempting conversation, and that they are trying to find some sort of common ground in which to engage in dialogue. In the end, I cannot fault them for their efforts.

Instead of Making Turkey, They Make Reservations, Pete Wells of the New York Times explores why families often opt to dine out on Thanksgiving Day. The reasons run the gamut from not having yet made friends in a new town, to avoiding explosive dinner conversation with families, to wanting to simplify Thanksgiving and letting chefs create the dinner and leave the staff to do the cleanup. My family once dined out on Thanksgiving. We had a delicious meal at a cozy corner table in a fine restaurant where my then-toddler daughter could play with her non-noisy toys without getting in the way of the servers or other patrons. While we pronounced it a success, we lamented the lack of leftovers. The following Thanksgiving saw us at home collaboratively preparing the feast, setting the table with one of my Italian linen tablecloths made by my aunts in Italy, using the “good china”, and wine glasses from the cabinet. All felt and tasted right again with the world.

My darling parents have since passed away, and close family member have either relocated to the coast, or share holidays with in-laws. We now dine with dear friends who honor their Italian and French heritages, as we do our Italian lineage. We have a common bond in that we are also rampant foodies, literary aficionados, and we relish conversation encompassing wit, humor, and insight. Thanksgiving is the holiday where we friends can come together. While we wish we could meet more often, our lives are filled with work, visiting our children in other cities, and attending to elderly family members. We are close friends who function like family, and we cherish this bond. My dear family extend heartfelt invitations for us to join them for Thanksgiving, and I am most grateful, while I hold dear sitting down with them in the past.

I take heart in the mirth and joy of Thanksgiving, whether we partake of the meal with family or with friends. Let us advocate to give thanks for family and friends, and let us raise our glasses to honor the blessings derived from delicious food and the company of those we love.

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The pasta bowl was filled to the top with Pasta e Fagioli, but I was hungry, and I had eaten most of it when I remembered I needed to snap a photo. – http://www.tangledpasta.net

By Mary Anna Violi | @MaryAnnaVioli

Maybe it had something to do with the death of one of my 48 first cousins last week. Perhaps the up and down warm and chilly weather affected me, or my usual spring melancholy at the end of a teaching semester accounted for it. Whatever the reason, I craved a Southern Italian food I had not made in a while: Pasta e Fagioli, otherwise known as Pasta and Beans. This filling, comforting dish of Italian tastiness is not complicated to make. In fact, Pasta e Fagioli can most likely be created from pantry items at home. Its ingredients are those I keep on hand. If I run out of an item, it is purchased the next time I stop at the grocery.

My guess is that I rather lost my taste for this classic Italian peasant dish when it became popular among affluent upscale types. Collectively those people were enough to make me lose my appetite when they seized upon our traditional food. After seeing my beloved Pasta e Fagioli on a restaurant menu priced at $5.00 to $10.00 a bowl, depending upon which part of the country I was in, it felt like a death knell had tolled. Having Pasta e Fagioli on a legitimate Italian restaurant menu did not faze me; it was seeing it printed on non-authentic Italian restaurant menus that saddened me.

Growing up in an Italian Catholic household, Pasta e Fagioli was standard Friday night fare since we were forbidden to eat meat or fowl in those years, although we could eat fish. There are as many variations on this Southern Italian classic as there are on vegetarian chili: every cook indulges in the chef’s prerogative when it comes to ingredients and consistency. Some prefer a thick Pasta e Fagioli, while others like it more in a soup form. I have always preferred it thick and hearty. However, now when I make Pasta e Fagioli, I use far less tomatoes than in years past. This is noted in the recipe included below.

Heat oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add onion and cook until softened, about 2 minutes. Add garlic, and cook about a minute more, but do not burn the garlic. Stir in strained tomatoes, oregano, dried red pepper flakes, and chicken stock. Cover and cook to heat through, about 5-6 minutes. Add cannellini beans and simmer 10 minutes or so.

Cook elbow macaroni in a large pot of salted, boiling water until nearly cooked, about 6 minutes. Add to mixture, and cook 20 minutes. Add salt and ground black pepper.

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Salve! Salve! Today is Mother’s Day, the meaning of which still perplexes me. Should we not honor our mother 365 days of the year, instead of on only one day? The common custom has become to take dear Mummy out for brunch, or lunch, or dinner on Mother’s Day. This in itself requires a bit of quick-footed planning in the art of making the reservation itself weeks ahead of the Day of Dear Old Mum. Flowers abound, children in their Sunday best, delays in seating at said restaurant, and we will not discuss the perils of parking the motorized chariot in which Mother rode with family members.

Whilst me thinks it a lovely gesture to set aside one day in May for we of Club Mother, I would like to give pause to contemplate these grandiose overtures on one Sunday each year. If we honor our Mothers on this day with a lovely meal at home not prepared by our Mamas, and we lavish glorious flowers upon her, for our forbearers told us never to plant anything prior to Mother’s Day, and we surround our dear Mamas with love and affection, then I would like to ask, What are we doing for her the rest of the year? If she has taught us well, then we should demonstrate acts of kindness to her throughout the year. Random acts of kindness to she who bore us that remind her of our devotion. As Mother myself, I can attest that there is nothing more I cherish than spontaneous hugs from my daughter, her sweet kisses when she walks through the door, and her thoughtfulness at even making my bed or doing the laundry [tasks I loathe, yet are necessary evils, at least the laundry is].

My idea of a perfect Mother’s Day on the government designated day in May is simply to have nothing planned, beyond setting out and arranging the porch and patio furniture, and later sitting down that night to watch a movie with my daughter after enjoying a meal that she herself has prepared for us. If Mother’s Day also includes celebrating the day with my out-of-town brother and his family, then that is always joyful too. I miss my Mother every day these past 12 Mother’s Days. We should keep our Mothers in our hearts, and if flowers are included for her, all the better. I take solace in the fact that I did for my own Mama, flowers were always included.

The day after Christmas seems surreal. After the flurry of choosing gifts, wrapping presents, baking biscotti, making fudge, and savory dinners, the day after The Big Day, is a bit of a letdown. Yet imbibing a cup of hot tea with the family as we tried to look refreshed at the breakfast table was laid back and cheerful. Although my thought had been to ramble around the charming brick street village of my brother’s town, taking a peek in the boutiques, and flipping through books at the new little bookstore, it was not to be. While my dear sister-in-law Kelley and I figured we were invited to my niece Lauren’s new in-laws for dinner that evening, it turned out that dinner would be at 2:30 p.m.

“No matter,” I told myself, “It means I will have to return for browsing in the village at a later date.”

We ducked over to Lauren and Justin’s to meet their cat Oliver. I chuckle over their naming their black cat Oliver, for I had a white cat named Oliver for ten years. Oliver is quite a character, like most cats I know, but he is affectionate, playful and an all round darling furry fellow.

My niece’s husband Justin has the nicest family. They are of French Canadian extraction, and up until two years ago, they lived in Vermont. His father is a computer wizard and his mother taught French for years in a Vermont secondary school. Each time we have dined with them, the food Ann cooks is a marvel of French Canadian with a twist of Vermont cuisine. December 26th’s fare proved fine too. We have learned that Vermont folks use a preponderance of their tasty maple syrup in dishes such as simmered beans, baked ham, and, I think it might have also been in one of the savory meat pies. As an Italian American in the Heartland, I grew up thinking maple syrup poured over a stack of pancakes was how one ate maple syrup, mighty good it was. However, Anna, Jim, their son Justin and daughter Sabreena have happily broadened my maple syrup horizons.

Ann and Jim laid a beautiful table for our day after Christmas dinner – tangledpasta.net

We all exchanged gifts, and talked, and laughed as we marveled at the sunshine offsetting the chilly weather. After coffee and Buche de Noel, we piled into the car and headed back to Frank and Kelley’s. In looking over the landscape of Christmas Eve with Uncle Sam’s family, Christmas Day with my brother Frank’s family, and the day after Christmas with Justin’s family, I realized once more how grand this Christmas of 2013 was because we spent it with those we love best.

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Giving Thanks encourages us to pause with family and friends – tangledpasta.net

By Mary Anna Violi | @Mary Anna Violi

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. For the second day in a row I landed in a grocery store. One would think we were preparing the entire Thanksgiving feast, but no, we are bringing the crudités, cheese ball [rolled in nuts] and a homemade coconut cream pie. My daughter and I are cooking my November 30th birthday dinner, which is why we had a second day of grocery shopping.

Today’s grocery experience took place at Whole Foods, fortuitously because we were hungry, and the day before Thanksgiving, samples were out in full force. We noshed on organic dates, Clementine oranges, Gruyère cheese, roasted lamb, cranberry walnut bread, and vegan pumpkin pie. The only problem with selecting items one actually needs while shopping on an empty stomach is that one winds up with a cart full of extra items not on the original shopping list. We exited the store with four spanakopita and two pounds of spinach and Gruyère stuffed mushrooms, both of which were not on the list, and a fresh turkey breast, which was also not on the list, but it is snowing fast and furiously here and what if we cannot travel to my brother’s house two-and-three-quarter-hours away on Thanksgiving morning? I judged it safer to have the turkey breast on hand, although after we loaded up the SUV I realized that we had been invited to share Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow with some dear friends, and had received an invitation from lively local family members.

“The turkey breast could be frozen until the Christmas holidays,” I mused. Rationalization intact, I thought about all the frenzied shoppers I observed today. Maybe we now place too much pressure on ourselves for Thanksgiving. All the stress used to be reserved from frenetic Christmas shopping. Yet it seems to me that the quest to make Thanksgiving Dinner Perfect has overtaken some of us. We tend to be a culture of overachievers who sometimes border on anal perfectionists. Or maybe that is simply who I am and I am in denial.

At Thanksgiving we need not worry about bearing gifts, for which I am thankful. After all, Thanksgiving’s allure is sharing a delicious meal with one’s family, although this year the first night of Hanukkah falls on Thanksgiving. Since I am not Jewish, I am off the hook for buying Hanukkah presents. If gifts were involved, it would mean making sure all gifts looked no less than perfect. That is what I look forward to early next month. All right, I confess: I started Christmas shopping over a month ago. However, tomorrow we will sit down with our family and relish a delectable Thanksgiving banquet.

I notice the tissue supply is running dangerously low. This means I will be forced to trek to the store, which means I will end up purchasing throat lozenges, Vick’s inhaler, and boxes or cans of chicken noodle soup. Of course, this translates into trudging to two different stores: Target for the paper products and lozenges, and Whole Foods for the soup. As I stare bleakly into the pantry, I realize the bread needs to be replenished. Peering into the refrigerator [Do I have a fever? My face feels hot and the chilliness of the ‘fridge feels good.], it is evident eggs and soymilk will need to be bought too. The mango slices I neglected to finish were the only fresh fruit in the house. Fruit is added to the list of What Is Needed. The Brown Cow Maple Yogurt is gone too.

Thanksgiving is next Thursday, November 28, two days before my birthday. I prefer to be in the pink for my birthday. My birthday is a special day that is mine, alone, even if no party has been planned. It would be lovely to be able to taste the Thanksgiving dinner too, minus the stuffy head and clogged nasal passages. Sneezing and blowing one’s nose into a handkerchief, which is sturdier than a tissue, and has a nicer ring to it, while coughing uncontrollably over the Thanksgiving repast has a tendency to suppress the appetites of the others at the table.

If only this cold would vanish, I would feel like swooping up those ten items at Whole Foods, thereby giving me access to the “10 Items or Less” aisle for a speedy checkout. Instead of attempting a run to Target, I’ll swing by the pharmacy that is much closer to home.

On the other hand, maybe I will indulge in a quick nap to refresh myself.

Lime green Jello sounds good now too. I jot Jello down on the list before I drift off into the Land of Nod.